My sister and I walked to school in the fifties. About a mile. Uphill. Took us about fifteen minutes. Mostly heads down, focussed on getting there quickly, avoiding puddles or rapid storm water in the winter, running our hands along the rosemary or lavender hedges which would have helped subdue the smell of our father’s cigarette smoke through our clothes. All the kids must have smelled the same as most of the fathers smoked, in the houses. Our mission was to get to school on time but walking home held no such urgency.
Let me think about the smells along the way. The first shop passed on the way home was John’s Hardware. Today’s hardware stores smell synthetic. But this one smelled primarily of the pine floorboards, mopped daily with kerosene. What I remember of this business was the sloping cabinetry between customer and counter. Dozens of small open box-like timber compartments held nuts, bolts, washers, nails, screws, and the like that were sold by weight. The little metal bits and pieces were counted out into a brown paper bag and then placed on the beautiful brass bowl of the cast iron scales on the counter. What an odd little girl I must have been. Even then I appreciated the patina and beauty of the slightly dented tray and the crafted shape of the scales.
Mrs. John was slightly stooped and skewed from rheumatoid arthritis, even though reasonably young. A pleasant woman though, despite what must have been debilitating pain. Her husband worked mostly behind the scenes in the business. He was the director and drum major of our town’s marching band – a position of great status. I can still see him dressed in his beautiful uniform in front of the band – a tall, straight, handsome man of great dignity – twirling his shining mace and vocalising directions as they marched. Our band often won the state-wide competitions. What rousing music they played. Still brings a tear to my eye to see and hear a marching band.
Next shop along the street was Mattiske’s Drapery. More bare floor-boards and the smell of cotton. Great rolls of gorgeous fabrics on display stands. My mother was a clever seamstress and I loved clothes and fashion. Perhaps once or twice a year my sister and I were allowed to choose a fabric, and Mum would sew us each a dress that I had designed – quite often inspired by something I’d seen in a magazine. The chosen fabric would be taken to the assistant, measured along the brass yard strip tacked to the edge of the counter, a little nick put in the material with the scissors and then torn to length and folded. Then brown paper, dragged from the cast iron roll holder – always just the right length from countless yards of paper pulling. The fabric placed on the paper, wrapped up, and tied with string from the ball-shaped string dispenser. Oh gosh, this might be boring my younger readers but the older will be remembering fondly, I hope.
Next along the street was Stan Arnold’s bike shop. Stan was an eccentric man. I always suspected he was very clever – an engineer and an inventor at heart. I think I got this impression from my father who I sensed respected him. My father either respected people or had no time for them. I don’t think there was much middle ground.
On opening his shop each morning he would wheel all the bikes awaiting repairs out onto the verandah so that he had room inside to work. It looked to me like just one great jumble of wheels and spokes and handle-bars. I know a lot of the townspeople thought it was an eyesore, and I think he was often asked to put them elsewhere but he didn’t. He was a lovely man – a little shy. Tall, slim, and always in navy overalls, brown lace-up shoes. I am intriguing myself as I write and realise how much I remember of these times so long ago.
Next business along was the undertakers’. Theirs was a two-storeyed house with the fabrication workshop upstairs. The sounds that came out of there were of sawing and hammering – the industry of coffin-making. I was a friend of their daughter Christine. I remember the skinny little wooden staircase leading up to the coffin-making space and being in the house at the base of those stairs, looking up to where the sounds of work were coming from and thinking about death and finality. I don’t think they had bodies there. I imagine they were held in the morgue at the hospital until the day of burial. Mrs. Kleeman, wife of the undertaker and mother of four, often sat on a garden seat on her front verandah. The poor woman always looked tired as I’m sure she was with four children and all that banging and hammering above her kitchen. She loved talking to the townsfolk as they passed. Had rather a cheeky sense of humor I reckon.
Next was Mrs. Seiman’s shop of natural remedies and homeopathics. What a lovely lady she was. Also a little stooped with arthritis. German accent. Hair in a loose bun at the back with wisps falling on either side of her pretty face. This shop smelled wonderful – I guess a little like the health food shops of today. Now I would be hard-pressed to know what she had in there to make it smell so, other than her home-made icecream. She was so generous that any kid who went in there with threepence to spend would be given a double iceream in a cone with a third scoop piled on top. Whatever flavour you asked for, and my favourites were strawberry and lime, would be added to with a finishing scoop of vanilla – dished out with the aluminium scoop that she dipped in water after each addition. There were jars and jars of things on shelves. Remembering the smell of the shop, I guess there would have been aniseed and licorice. Maybe eucalyptus, lemon. What natural remedies would people have bought from there? I’m seeing some old friends this week who, like me, have lived in this town all their lives. This could make for some interesting conversation. They may remember more.
This is a theme I can build on in my next blog. A wonderful childhood.
I found an old poem I must have written decades ago. Quite a long poem but I will put up just an excerpt here –
. . . . I wheeled out my bicycle and pushed off
cycling automatically
with mulling thoughts
The day was still delicate
timid
hadn’t laid all its cards on the table
not even half
and before I’d finished with my thoughts
I was at the old grey concrete arch
that shouldered the bridge
across my creek
Decades of teenage rendezvous told here
in charcoal
My initials in the mix
S.H in an arrow-pierced heart
with P.K
Not my doing
Maybe his
The creek had a new story each time I went
alone
If I went with friends it paid no heed to me
Maybe I was a trifle brash on those occasions
or unwilling to divulge my league with Nature . . . . . .
I guess my blogs are an extension to my memoir. At this point I must thank a fellow blogger who helped me with formatting my poetry. Showed me how to eliminate double spacing between the lines. Always something to learn.
I am thankful for my memories. Life on this planet is changing so rapidly. I often wonder what the childhood memories of my grandchildren – remembered from their adulthood – will look like. Vastly different from mine no doubt.
Until next blog, take care everyone, and remember to see that beauty in the world which never changes.
Warmly’
Sue